


Cactus

by Eilinelithil



Series: The Language of Flowers [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Courtship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, a monthly Rumbelling July 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Belle and Gold continue their courtship with poetry and flowers and as their relationship grows, Rumple sends Belle a very important giftNominated in the 2021 Espenson Awards for the Monthly Rumbelling (Non Smut) category.This Series was nominated in the 2021 Espenson Awards for the Best Series category.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: The Language of Flowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800445
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Cactus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July Monthly Rumbelling moodboard prompt, the image of the cactus. (obviously)

Although they had officially been dating for three weeks, he didn’t stop the practice that had brought them together.

He already had some flowers, which he’d pressed prior to their daily arrangement of walking together at dusk, as well as taking afternoon tea on Sundays, just to break up the monotony of the weeks that never seemed to change in Storybrooke. However, he wanted something different now they knew each other a little better; something _special_.

He began to spend some of the free time he had between customers who came in to the pawn shop, for the repair of mechanical, clockwork trinkets and other assorted trivia, on the Internet. At first his Google searches frustrated him, as he always seemed to put in the wrong search parameters, and got back ridiculous answers such as how to wash a dog he didn’t have, with vinegar and baking soda. He wondered how on earth Google thought this was an appropriate answer when the words he’d typed in were, ‘Flower Lore.’ It was one of the reasons he _hated_ the Internet with a passion reserved previously for such people as the mayor, the proprietor of the Rabbit Hole, and of course, Belle’s no good father. He persevered, however, - as he had done with the three aforementioned individuals - and soon the Internet yielded the results for which he had been hoping, a knowledgeable and consistent web and blog site that focused on flowers, their meanings in folklore, and uses in common-day herbalism and home remedies.

It was for these reason he got into the habit of driving to the nearest town to Storybrooke to visit a rather well stocked nursery and florist establishment. He was becoming a regular, and it suited him well enough that the proprietor knew that he was only looking for the best plants and blooms. Only the best for his Belle.

* * *

Belle French frowned, a very confused frown, as she stood in the library doorway, looking down at the plant as if it were the oddest thing in the world. She crouched down and _very_ carefully fingered the edges of the soft tissue paper in which the plant was wrapped. Then she looked up and along the street to where she could see the familiar figure of Mister Gold limping along towards his shop.

She couldn’t count the number of stares they’d received from the many people who had seen them out walking together in the evenings, or who happened to be in Granny’s diner when they called in for their tea on Sundays. So many of them were the looks of astonishment at best, and mortification, at worst, and it hurt her heart to think that the people of Storybrooke still reviled Mister R Gold, while she, Belle French, was quickly coming to like him… a lot.

In fact, if pressed while she was working on another of the collages she made of Gold’s offerings, the ones she framed and put around the library apartment to, ‘brighten the place up’ as she would tell you at first, she _might_ just let you in on the secret yearnings that were beginning to stir in both her heart and her body for Storybrooke’s most hated man, and then fix you with a deadly stare that _dared_ you to comment on her taste in romantic partners.

So, she picked up the plant, and carefully carried it inside the library where she unwrapped the blue and white ceramic pot in which it was planted - her favorite kind of housing for living plants that she received, although seldom - and set the cactus, for such was her gift - on the circulation desk for all to see, and until she could decide how in the name of everything holy she was going to get a cutting _and_ dry it to be used in one of her pictures.

It was a gift after all, and she wanted to use it, in spite of the thorns.

* * *

_Through the long, cold day I long for the warmth of your protection against wintry nights._

This time she had slipped the beautifully handwritten note inside the upper left pocket of the vest he wore beneath the suit jacket. Even after their weeks of walking together she still wrote to him, finding hiding places on his person, or in unexpected places around his shop where no one but he would find them. Once, she even managed to slip one into his wallet - and he _still_ hadn’t worked out how on earth she’d been able to achieve such a feat. Not that he wouldn’t have given his wallet to her if she’d ask.

He had found the note when he opened it up at the garage where he had the Cadillac serviced, and his oil changed. He pulled out the cash to pay Michael, the proprietor, and found the note nestled there between the bills. He stood for many long moments just staring at the piece of paper and the words she had written on it. Taking in nothing else for long enough that Michael called his name and asked if everything were okay.

It was. It was unexpected, but more than welcome.

With a smile, when he reached his shop, he walked into the back room where beautiful rainbow dahlia were carefully tucked into a large dome of soaked, green oasis to keep them fresh for the evening, when he could give them to Belle in a small basket he had picked out as perfect for the occasion. He thought the blooms reflected the elegance and dignity that she displayed as they walked around Storybrooke together with her on his arm.

How could she be so patient with others?

Having seen some of the looks she had endured, some of the stares over the last three weeks, it was a wonder to him that he had not simply broken from her gentle hold, taken his cane, and smashed them to within inches of their lives. How _dare_ they look at her in such a way. Still, she would always seem to know when his temper was about to get the better of him, and would tighten her hand around his arm, and give him the kind of smile that made him forget everything around him, and focus only on her.

* * *

Belle carefully teased the cactus leaf apart and set it to press between two of the heaviest books in her apartment, which she had brought up from the library. That complete, she dipped her pen into the light green ink in the bottle on her desk. She had decided to order some different colored inks to add another dimension to the pictures she made from the flowers that Mister Gold still gave to her, perhaps even _more_ frequently now that they were courting. 

She paused, letting the end of the pen come to rest against her lip as she considered the words she had used in the latest of their pictures; a gift that she was preparing for Mister Gold for the approaching holiday. She had a bubbling excitement in her wait for it, for him to see it, and for him to be able to see that her feelings were true.

_Hours spent by candle, before the firelight’s glow as the march of time carries us toward full night._

With a smile she set down her pen, and turned the paper to rest it carefully against the blotter, careful not to smudge the lettering while it was still wet, and making certain that - by the time she was ready - the faint aroma of the rose-scented oils she had sprayed upon the paper lingered, completing her poetic missive, and encouragement for more. Spying the time, she reached for her coat and put the note carefully into her pocket, ready to slip it, unobserved onto Gold’s person as they walked.

True, it was a game she played with him, another way of more openly flirting with him than simply with flowers and poetry, but it was still unknown to the rest of Storybrooke, who looked at her with such unkind, judgmental eyes. Expressions she would, with a steady gaze, return to assure them that she was _not_ ashamed of her growing feelings for Mister Gold, nor would they make her so, with their impolite reception.

Closing the door behind her, she made the short walk back down to the library, from where, her heart full of happiness and a smile lighting her face, she would be collected for her evening walk.

* * *

After the third of her short, poetic notes that week, Gold finally reached for the courage, at least in his own company, to consider taking their relationship further, but in another crisis of confidence, which always seemed to trigger when he considered how he _might_ progress nearer to his desire for he and Belle.

The Thursday morning saw him staring seriously into his coffee cup in a booth at the middle of the diner, further back from his usual place.

“Did something go wrong?” David asked, still a little too loudly in public, and not for the first time Gold winced and wondered what had made him choose David for his confidante. Still he pulled out the carefully folded, much cherished piece of vellum.

As quietly as all the other times, he slid the folded note across the table between the two of them seated at the table.

“Is this the problem?” David asked again, as Gold seemed reluctant to release the sheet of paper. “She told you something that upset you in a note?

“I’m not upset,” he said, shaking his head, “and again, please keep your voice down. This is a _most_ private matter.” David raised an eyebrow and gave a soft apology, and Gold doubted that the other man would ever guess the content of the note. He leaned forward in his seat and quietly, confidentially, explained what he could of the growing affections between he and Belle.

David sat back in his seat, a smile on his face as Gold finished his tale. “Well, that’s _good_ news,” he said. “Isn’t it? Why don’t you just _ask_ her. Now… tonight, I mean, on your walk.”

“Please,” Gold said, “It’s most impropitious. Besides, why should I have reason to believe that she shares my growing feelings in any way?”

“Talking to her?” David questioned, and Gold finally lifted his hand from the latest of the notes he had received, this time in the front pocket of his jacket, found after last night’s walk. He watched as David pulled the note toward him and opened it, saw the way his eyebrows shot up as he read. Gold knew the words already, by heart, and even thinking them made it clench and send its always birdlike flutter down into his groin.

_And in that night, with you beside me, shall I call your name as you know me._

“Wow,” David said, looking up from the note. “And you doubt she shares your feelings how exactly?”

“Because,” he began, surrendering to a moment of almost painful honesty, “Even after weeks of courting, and walking in public, longing to take things further - when it comes to it, I fear that what I have to offer her is far less then the gift that she can give… and not as much as she deserves.

David regarded him without words for the longest time, meeting his eyes and holding him in place with only his gaze until, uncomfortable, he began to fidget.

“I think you need to let _Belle_ be the judge of that.”

* * *

Belle wiped off the last of the dust from the circulation desk and a soft sigh escaped her. She had hoped, as before, that Mister Gold might call in to suggest a different course than simply their evening walk, that he might have understood, and for a moment she felt such fierce disappointment that her eyes became hot with unshed tears.

Had her poetic notes been too unclear? Had the cactus been a symbol of his irritation with her in some way?

She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten, and there were no patrons in the library, so as was her desire, she locked up, heade upstairs, and prepared to drown her disappointment in a bucket of tea, and as much foundation as would hide the evidence of her sorrow. It was not at all her usual way, but she just felt… cowed and lonely.

His soft voice began the moment she left the stacks to head back to the desk, rolling like a wave of warmth across the space between them as she came to a sudden halt, her heart beating so quickly it was like unto one continuous drum-roll.

“Safe and warm within my arms,” he purred, “bearing the rose of my kiss.”

He approached her slowly, and it was only then that she noticed that he had turned out all but one of the lights in the library’s lobby, and that he reached for her with an un-gloved hand, his fingertips barely brushing against her skin.

“So that I need not speak, only _be_ the echo of my heart for thee”

She blushed as she leaned toward him, into the soft touch of his fingers on her cheek, and looked up at him with a moonlit ocean for eyes that met the caramel warmth of his.

“Rumple,” she greeted him softly, a little breathless.

“May I?” he asked quietly, passing the tender brush of his thumb against her lips.

Blushing more fiercely, she nodded once, and then stilled, even holding her breath as he leaned closer yet, brushing his mouth softly to hers.

“Belle,” she breathed as he withdrew his touch.

She watched as he retrieved his cane from where he always left it, and then tipped her head in query as he offered her his arm.

“Would you care to share a nightcap with me, at my home?” he asked.

She smiled, and slipped her hand onto his arm.

“I should like that very much,” she said.


End file.
